


The Maiden and the Dwarf: Part 2

by DK65



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2018-07-14 11:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7169558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DK65/pseuds/DK65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Tyrion in the modern day and age. First, they get caught in a snow storm as they travel south by train...<br/>These characters belong to GRRM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snow Storm

Sansa Stark was driving down to the Wintertown railway station; the classes at the university had just got over at four on that gray and cloudy afternoon and her winter break had begun. She would join her family at Storm’s End; they planned to sail around the Stormlands, the Reach and Dorne in her uncle Robert Baratheon’s Golden Fury for at least three or four weeks. It would be quite a large party that Uncle Robert and Aunt Lyanna would host, consisting of their six children; her parents and their five kids; Robert’s two younger brothers, their partners and a niece, as well as Robert Arryn, Sansa’s orphaned cousin and her uncle’s godson.

She’d packed her bags and put them in the boot of her car that morning before she left for the university. The rest of the family had already gone off to the Stormlands a week ago; she had stayed behind, since she had classes to teach. She parked her car at the appropriate spot in the railway station car park and dragged her bags across to the platform where the train going south of the Neck would arrive. She was just in time; the train was just chugging onto the platform as she got there. She located her compartment and loaded her luggage into the locker.

Although the advent of railways some hundred years ago had reduced the time taken to traverse Westeros, she still had a long journey ahead of her. Her family had taken Grey Wind, the family yatch, down the Winterkill River, to Duskendale and Storm’s End a week ago—they had just made landfall. Sansa expected to spend at least three days on the super-fast train she had just boarded. It would take them twelve hours to reach Moat Cailin; then eighteen hours to get to the Twins and a day to Lord Harroway’s Town. From there, it was another day’s journey to King’s Landing, which was the major railway junction in the country, where she would take yet another train to Storm’s End. She’d been lucky to get a compartment to herself all the way from Winterfell to King’s Landing; she planned to spend a night at King’s Landing, with her friend Margaery Tyrell, who worked as an assistant to the Hand of the King, and then take the train to Storm’s End. That should not be a long journey; not more twelve hours, so Margaery had said.

She was just sipping her tea as the train started; she was a little anxious about it splashing on her lovely gray travelling outfit. She was congratulating herself on being alone—she felt the need for solitude acutely, from time to time—when the door to her compartment flew open and a man four feet tall, with stunted legs, a large head covered with lank platinum-gold hair that fell over his massive forehead, a face with squashed-in features and mismatched eyes, one green and one black, barged in. He was warmly clad in a pair of tweed trousers, over which he wore a crimson cardigan, with a lion on the left side. He was lugging a suitcase almost as large as hers—his was crimson and gold, while hers had been a discreet gray-and-white.

“Excuse me for disturbing you so, my dear lady; I just caught the train as it was leaving.” Although he had the wits to make polite conversation, he was woefully short of breath and gasped as he did so. She indicated the seat opposite hers and encouraged him to sit down and share her tea. He thanked her and introduced himself.

“I’m Tyrion Lannister—I do a regular column for the Westeros Times on history and culture. I’ve spent the last month tramping up and down the Wall, from Eastwatch to the Shadow Tower. I’ve just finished my assignment and was desperate to get to King’s Landing.”

Of course she’d heard of Tyrion Lannister and his column; as a student and later a teacher of history, it had always been her favourite reading. It was widely known that he’d started writing these columns soon after he left university; he began with stories on the Westerlands and then went on to cover every important region in Westeros. He’d never written on the North before; this was his first trip there, he told her as they shared the pot of tea provided by the railways.

“I teach at Wintertown University; I’m going down to Storm’s End to meet my family,” she volunteered. She spoke of their plans to go sailing in the south, while he spoke of catching up with his family. His sister, he said, lived in the capital; she had married young and had three children. His brother, who managed the family property, would travel down from the Westerlands, along with his wife and their mother and father, who worked as an advisor to various politicians.

In return, she spoke of her father’s work in experimental farming and her older brother’s work as a lawyer. “Arya’s just joined university; she’s one of the guiding lights of the fencing club. My two younger brothers are still in school.”

He frowned as she spoke. “You mentioned Storm’s End—are you by any chance related to the Baratheons?”

“Of course; Robert Baratheon is married to my aunt. Why do you ask?”

“Because I see him quite often in the capital—he’s still quite a fine footballer, you know, despite the binging on food and drink? He coaches the King’s Landing Dragons, although he says they’re not half as good as his own team, the Storm’s End Stags. His wife is great fun—she really manages to keep him in line—and give him a hard time when he binges.”

The ticket collector walked into their compartment just at that moment; he looked at Tyrion, his lips tight. “Mr Lannister,” he began, “I don’t think it will be easy for you to find a free berth on the train to King’s Landing. Almost all our passengers are heading south; we might just make a few stops to pick up fresh water and supplies on the way, certainly not to let off travellers.”

“What do you mean, Jory?” Sansa interrupted, feeling a little perturbed.

“What I mean, my lady, is this—Mr Lannister will have to share your compartment as far as King’s Landing. I’m sorry, ma’am; I know you booked ahead and he just bought his ticket as he got off the train from Castle Black. You’ll have to share—we’re full up.”

Sansa simply nodded her head. She could understand that Jory felt apologetic for the lack of space for Mr Lannister; she could also understand Tyrion’s desire to be with his family for the winter holidays. She would not really be inconvenienced—they were adults; this was the modern world and her virtue would hardly be compromised irreparably if she shared a compartment for four days with the journalist, who had, so far, behaved like a gentleman.

“I’ll give you the bottom berth; I shall be quite all right on the upper one,” she told Tyrion. She’d always done this when travelling with her younger brothers and sister; she always worried about Bran climbing and (not-so) little Rickon falling out of the topmost berth. As for Arya—she was such an active child that she seldom went to bed early. Sansa hated it when she was woken by Arya climbing up to the top berth.

“If you say so, ma’am,” he responded, suddenly sounding tired. She quickly asked Jory about mealtimes and the location of the dining car. He told her how to get there, and also said that dinner would be served at eight. She thanked him.

They heard about the approaching storm at dinner; one of their fellow travellers, who’d come up north on business, and was just as anxious to return now that winter had come, spoke of what he’d learnt while staying at the Dreadfort. They would have several days, if not weeks, of bad weather, due to something called the polar vortex. Since that well-informed gentleman, a Mr Hyle Hunt, sat at their table in the dining car, they had the full benefit of getting the information from the horse’s mouth.

“I hope,” she said to Tyrion, as they returned to their compartment, “that this wretched storm strikes when we’ve reached our destinations. It would really be very tiresome to be held up somewhere on the way because of bad weather.”

He agreed with her. “I was talking with the men of the Night’s Watch—their Lord Commander in particular—and he told me of their findings. They say the ice sheets that once covered the Land of Always Winter have grown thin; they fear some environmental disaster is on the way.”

She said nothing to this; her family had always believed that some disaster awaited them around the corner. She was pleased to note that the beds had been turned down; she felt the need for an early night. While Tyrion Lannister sat reading, she quickly finished using the bathroom and changed for the night into a modest white woollen nightgown that would have been a septa’s envy. She bade him good night and climbed to the upper berth. He got up after a little while, went to the bathroom and returned, in a crimson silk pyjama suit embroidered all over with little gold lions. She closed her eyes, shuddered in horror at the sartorial excess and went off to sleep.

She did not know what time it was when she felt the train jerk to a halt. She woke up, all of a sudden, and grabbed the strap located close to her head, because she felt she would fall off the upper berth. She was somewhat steadied as she listened to Tyrion Lannister snoring gently in the lower berth. She decided to get up and investigate what had happened when she heard the loud voices of the railway guards and stewards and sensed something heavy thump on the roof.

She got into her warm gray dressing gown and inched herself off the top berth, stuffing her feet into her slippers. She opened the door of her compartment and looked out; the guards were moving around, looking bewildered.

She called out to one of them. “Alyn, what happened?”

He sighed. “Lady Sansa,” he said, sounding somewhat defeated, “we’re caught in a snowstorm--a really heavy snowstorm. The railway lines are blocked right up to the Twins, even as far as Lord Harroway’s Town. And we might have to halt here at Moat Cailin for the gods know how long. There’s a rather run-down inn here, called The Drunkard’s Tower, where we’re trying to get rooms for our passengers and ourselves. We can’t go on in this weather.”

“When will we have to leave the train?” she asked, feeling anxious. “What time is it?”

“It’s five in the morning, my lady; we made good time so far. All would have been well, but for the snow... It won’t be long now before we give the wake up call. Best be prepared, is all I will say.”  
She went in at once and dressed quickly. Then she gently shook Tyrion awake, told him what Alyn had said and advised him to get ready. He scrambled out of bed and went off to tidy up. She could not help but notice that, despite his ugliness, he looked rather charming when he was a little rumpled. She shook her head and finished her packing. By the time Alyn woke up the rest of the passengers in the carriage, both she and Tyrion were packed and ready to move.

The Drunkard’s Tower, a small, family-run hotel, which had not seen such a large group of guests in many a decade, was able to provide rooms for them all—the passengers, the guards, the dining car waiters, the cook, the stewards, the engine driver and the engineer. They were all able to squeeze in. Sansa found herself gasping when she and Tyrion were given the honeymoon suite. She felt her face turn red as a beetroot with embarrassment. She was glad they were amongst the last passengers to be accommodated. Although she had felt quite nonchalant about sharing a compartment with him on the train, because everyone knew the berths on the train could hold no more than one person at a time, she felt less so when sharing a room in a hotel. It was likely that the room had a double bed. She did not know how they would solve this social riddle. She hoped and prayed the storm would get over soon. She called her mother as soon as she had settled in to give her the bad news.

Her mother had equally dire news to share with her. “We’re not going sailing,” Catelyn informed Sansa. “The weather reports say we are to get the heaviest fall of snow in the history of the Stormlands within the next week. They expect the temperatures to plummet. Dorne is suffering from a drought, as are the Dothraki grasslands—your uncle Brandon called to give us this information. He says they fear Vaes Dothrak might go up in flames. And the Ironmen are fleeing their islands, because of the floods. Hordes of them have arrived in the Reach. They’re not going to the Westerlands or the North—they say it’s too cold there. Please stay warm and well wrapped up, sweetling. Take care of yourself. Everyone’s worried about you.”

She went down to breakfast and found herself sharing a table with Tyrion Lannister. He looked grim. When she asked him if he’d been able to call his people, he nodded, in the affirmative and continued: “Mother and Jaime can’t leave the Westerlands—it appears the Sunset Sea is running high and flooding Lannisport. They’re worried it might flood the lower levels of the Rock. Asha—that’s my goodsister—is frantic about her family and her people because the Iron Islands are almost under water. Father’s stranded somewhere in the Vale—he’d gone to Essos to meet representatives of the Iron Bank and his plane had to make an emergency landing there on the way back. Cersei—that’s my sister—is frantic because her new year’s party will be a disaster. And I’m stranded on the Neck.”

She pursed her lips; as a north woman, she was used to all kinds of bad weather and took it as a fact of life. “The storm might end soon,” she said, trying to sound hopeful as she ate her porridge.

“Or it might snow for the next two days, non-stop. They’ll have to clear the railway lines of snow before we can continue our journey.” He crunched the bacon and toast as he finished his breakfast. “I’ve spoken to my editor at the Westeros Times. He says they’re comparing it to the Long Night you north men talk about; or to the time around the Targaryen Restoration when the Wall almost fell and they say the Night’s Watch fought the White Walkers. Made my skin crawl, I can tell you that. And he’s talking about the Ironmen coming to the Reach.”

“Yes; my mother talked of that too. I just hope we don’t have riots down south.”

“I’m certain we won’t—the Ironborn aren’t invading, as they did almost a thousand years ago. They’re merely fleeing their flooded islands.”

“I suppose we should expect an influx from Skagos to the North, unless the Skagosi have made it to Essos. And if Skagos is affected, what about Braavos? And there’s another thing--my uncle Brandon says the Dothraki are facing a drought—and there’s drought in Dorne as well, so my mother says.”

They entertained each other with dire visions of the calamities that could arise due to the bad weather. She wondered what they would talk about, if they were marooned in The Drunkard’s Tower for a day or more. They’d briefly described their families, spoken about their holiday plans and bemoaned their derailment due to bad weather.

Tyrion remarked. “I haven’t spoken to my father yet; he faxed my mother at the Rock when his plane landed in the Vale. He’s never believed the stories they tell of the Long Night or the White Walkers. And if you talk to him about the Wall almost falling and the Night’s Watch fighting the Walkers, all you’ll hear is a snort. I wonder how he’s taking it. My brother-in-law, Rhaegar, is an entirely different kettle of fish; can’t stop talking about the Long Night and environmental disaster. My sister has a tough time, between the two of them. I think she still thinks like father, although you’d never hear her say so.”

“My family’s always believed the old tales—of the Long Night and the White Walkers—although my father thinks it happened a very long time ago and might not happen again. My mother too—my uncles always complain, when they come home to visit, that Mom’s become a north woman and not a Riverlander. Of course, she disagrees.”

“What do you think, Ms. Stark? Will we have yet another instance of the Long Night? Because that’s what they said at the Citadel in Oldtown—that the White Walkers reappearing around the time of the Targaryen Restoration was a sign of the Long Night.”

Sansa sighed. “I don’t know, Mr. Lannister; I don’t know what brought it on in the first two instances, so how can I say this is the Long Night come again? Although it feels very like it—the cold and the snow, I mean. I know what used to be said in those days—that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Perhaps we should not have planned this trip with Uncle Robert? Perhaps I should have stayed home, in Winterfell? I don’t know.”

“Come now, you don’t really believe in these old wives’ tales, do you? Your father is the Stark in Winterfell—if he sees nothing wrong with vacationing in the south during winter, why should you not go? You might well have frozen to death there; at least here, you have amusing company, if I may flatter myself.” And he smiled at her, his mismatched eyes gleaming. She laughed back and tried to remain cheerful.

They were there two days, during which they got to know each other rather well. They were able to work out the double-bed issue amicably—they simply set up a wall of bolsters and cushions in the centre of the bed at night. And then they lay on either side of the barrier and talked till they fell asleep. They talked of their families—he told her how his father, Tywin Lannister, had worked as financial advisor and Hand to Aerys Targaryen II, the late king; how, when Crown Princess Elia died birthing a son, the Crown Prince had insisted, against his father’s disapproval, on marrying Cersei, Tywin’s daughter; and how Cersei now reigned over the Targaryen court. “Of course, Queen Mother Rhaella lives in Dragonstone with Rhaegar’s younger brother and sister, as well as his children by Elia—Cersei will not have them at court. She’s quite determined that the throne must go to her son, young Joffrey—and my mother and the Queen Mother are equally determined it will go to Aegon, or else there might well be war with Dorne. Cersei and I never got along, even as children; Jaime, her twin, was always her favourite—and mother keeps him at the Rock, with his nose to the grindstone. She even got him married to Balon Greyjoy’s daughter, Asha, who’d rather run up the rigging of a sailboat than sweep down the staircase in a ball gown. He’s grown quite fond of the girl—she’s not at all conventional.”

She found herself telling him all about her family—her father and mother, who seemed to her to take the burdens of the world onto their shoulders; her uncle Brandon, who was so horse-mad he went off to live with the Dothraki; her uncle Benjen, whom he must have met at Castle Black; aunt Lyanna and her passion for gardening; uncle Edmure and his attempts to avoid marriage (until her mother set him up with Mya Baratheon); even about her aunt Lysa’s death of cancer, which had come soon after Uncle Elbert fell from a horse. She told him about Robin, the sad little boy, and how she’d spent time with him, because he was not used to playing with other boys his age. “My aunt treated him like a fragile creature, and he grew to think of himself that way. Now that he has us—and uncle Robert’s boisterous bunch—to get used to, I think he finds it rather difficult. But he’s getting out of it—Bran’s very good to him, and so are Jon and Gendry. I think he finds Mya rough and Bella loud and Edric boisterous—but he loves little Barra and she likes him.”

He told her how he’d become a journalist after he left the Citadel—he wanted to spread his wings, and his mother encouraged him, much to his father’s horror. His involvement with a fellow student from a humbler background spurred him on; although his relationship with Tysha didn’t last long (“I have the paparazzi and the celebrity press to thank for that!”), it was the making of him as a person. He told her how he’d tried to keep his involvements with women discreet (“Just because my sister’s the queen doesn’t mean my girlfriend loses her privacy!”), although he was not always successful.

She told him how she related to her siblings; how she’d always looked to Robb for protection; how she’d always looked after little Rickon, who hated being babied; how she and Bran had always enjoyed stories of the Long Night and knights and ladies and how she and Arya had always squabbled as little girls. “It’s only when we both grew up that we really learnt to appreciate each other. I’ll never forget the day when she came to me—she was a senior in school—and asked for my help to dress up and impress a certain guy. I don’t know what became of him, but we were able to talk after that, without having a fight.”

She even told him how her aunts had tried to arrange dates for her, and how unsuccessful that had been. Aunt Lysa had recommended Harry Harrdying enthusiastically; he turned out to be the love-‘em-and-leave-‘em sort, with three children born to three different girls out of wedlock. Aunt Lyanna had reciprocated by trying to set Sansa up with her brother-in-law Renly’s assistant, Loras Tyrell, because Sansa had taken such a liking to him, only to discover, much to her discomfiture, that Loras and Renly were a couple. Then her friend Margaery had taken a hand in matchmaking. “She’s trying to get me to go across to Highgarden, to meet her brother Willas; he got into farming and breeding horses and dogs, after he was crippled in a riding accident. But I don’t know if I want to settle down so far from my family. And if Willas can’t come to Winterfell to meet my father, what will become of my plans to see the world?”

They spent long hours talking about the books they’d read and the music they had listened to. They found themselves arguing and laughing and joking. They found they enjoyed each other’s company. Finally, they resumed their journey when the railway tracks were cleared of snow. They promised to write to each other and keep in touch, when they got off the train in King’s Landing.

When Sansa spoke to Margaery later about her stay in The Drunkard’s Tower at Moat Cailin, she did not realise how often she quoted something that Tyrion Lannister had said or described something that he had done. It was not difficult for Margaery to get Sansa to explain how they’d shared a railway compartment and a hotel bedroom, whilst talking and laughing and joking, without his making a pass at her. “Because you must know, Sansa,” Margaery informed her eagerly, “that most members of the court believe Tyrion Lannister to be some sort of insatiable lecher. His sister the queen set the paparazzi after him and his first girl friend, which did nothing to help the relationship. And they made such a big deal about her being a farmer’s daughter! The queen hates it that her mother and twin brother don’t come to court as often as she would like them to, and she feels they give her younger brother more attention than they do her. My Granny, the Hand, says she’s really very childish for a woman in her thirties. She’s very offended that Tyrion’s made a name for himself as a journalist and writer; green-eyed with jealousy, I’d say. Granny says she believes the queen’s done everything possible to ruin her younger brother’s reputation, which I think is disgraceful.”

She also told Sansa rather gleefully that Willas was to marry the princess Rhaenys, to ensure an amicable relationship between Dorne, the Iron Throne and the Reach, while Aegon, the Crown Prince, was to wed Shireen, the only one of the Baratheon girls who was the same age as himself. The King had already had his younger brother wed the Princess of Dorne, and his younger sister wed Prince Quentyn. It seemed, Margaery said, that His Grace wanted Princess Myrcella to wed Prince Trystane, much to the Queen’s rage at her daughter marrying a younger son. “But then she will not have her wed any of Robert Baratheon’s boys—neither Jon, Gendry nor Edric—so what does she expect?” Margaery laughingly asked.

Sansa had much to talk about with her mother by the time she reached Storm’s End. Catelyn told her how well the Stormlanders had coped with the snowstorm and how the Reach had been plagued by fifteen-hour-long traffic jams. She got an e-mail from Tyrion, telling her his mother, brother and goodsister had made it to King’s Landing, just in time for Cersei’s celebration. About his father, he said, “Dad might have changed his ideas about the Long Night. The Braavosi have been talking to him about financing environment-friendly technology and making a profit.” Sansa wrote back, to let him know the Skagosi had come to the North, just before the storm hit. “Dad’s fretting and fuming; he wants to get back to Winterfell. He doesn’t think Manderly , the deputy Warden of the North, and the Night’s Watch will be able to cope without him. I hope we have an easy voyage north; we’re going home by sea!”

It was not long after they returned home that Tywin Lannister invited himself, his wife and his youngest son, as well as Rhaegar Targaryen I, the reigning King, to visit Winterfell. Her father was rather surprised at this onslaught of distinguished guests, and Sansa wondered what this visit might lead to, although she looked forward to introducing her family to Tyrion. She hoped his second visit north would not be marred by yet another snow storm.


	2. A Modern Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Scotland Yard officer Ned Stark dies suddenly, leaving his family penniless during the recession, Tywin Lannister acts quickly to arrange a marriage between his youngest son and the oldest Stark daughter, Sansa.  
> These characters belong to GRRM.

Sansa knew she had no other choice—she had to accept Tywin Lannister’s offer or else...

Her father, who had worked in Scotland Yard’s Special Branch, had died recently; she had since learned, from the family lawyer, that the value of his pension and savings, as well as that of their London home, had gone down substantially after the recession. She’d left university that summer of 2008, with high hopes of contributing to her family’s income; all such hopes had faded, as she and her friends saw firms reduce hiring, to cut down on expenses. She worked a shift in the local coffee shop, to pay her expenses; she was lucky to be living at home and could save on rent. Her mother ran the home on the salary she received as headmistress of a school; but she was due to retire in a few years. She, Robb and Jon had managed to complete their university education with the scholarships they had earned for their achievements in academics and sports—but scholarships took you only so far. Arya was discovering this, much to her sorrow—she had a year or two of university to finish; she’d received a scholarship as a fencer, but she also had to work part time in a martial arts studio to make two ends meet. Bran was to start university that year—while Sansa had chosen to study history and literature, in hopes of getting a job in publishing, he was planning to study information and computer technologies. Rickon, who was still at school, often threatened to become a professional footballer instead of going to university, a prospect that Sansa viewed with dread.

She had heard of Tywin Lannister, the media magnate; her father had spoken of him with loathing. He never liked to talk about the cases he had handled, so Sansa never pressed him for details. Tywin Lannister came to their home to pay his condolences; he had known both her grandfathers and her granduncle. Sansa would have avoided talking to him, had mother been home; but since mother was not there—Catelyn had gone back to work—she offered Mr. Lannister a cup of tea and prepared to listen to his words of sympathy with the appropriate grace. What she was not prepared for was a very direct offer of help.

“Ms. Stark,” he had said firmly, “I take it you’ve had all the condolences you can handle, am I right? You must have spoken to your lawyer and found out exactly how the land lies—pensions, savings, investments and property have all fallen in value because of this wretched recession. And you have not yet been able to get any work, despite having done very well indeed at university. Well! It’s the recession, you see—we’ve had to stop hiring people at Lannister Publications also. However, I have a proposal to make to you. You can reject it after you’ve heard me out.”

Sansa listened—he said he had a son, a well-educated but wayward young man. Tyrion Lannister was the finest financial brain this side of the Atlantic—he wrote a blog on stock markets for small investors--but he had a lifestyle that would have brought a blush to the cheek of Charles II. He needed to get this son married off, to a young woman from the right home, with the right background and breeding. She had to be well-educated enough to converse with Tyrion and his colleagues and she had to be well-behaved enough to rein him in, if necessary. He asked her if she was interested, and she asked him if she could have a few days to think it over.

“It’s Friday evening,” he said bluntly. “I’m leaving you my mobile number—you can call or SMS your answer to me before five in the evening on Monday. I hope you will agree—it would give me great pleasure to welcome a Stark into the family.”

Sansa was glad no other member of her family was at home when she saw him out—she would have had to answer a lot of questions. This was one time she was relieved that Robb was soldiering in Afghanistan and Jon was in Siberia, studying climate change. Bran and Rickon were visiting Meera and Jojen Reed; their father, Howland, had been her father’s partner at the Yard. Arya would soon be back from her stint in the martial arts studio; Sansa had to rush to get ready for the coffee shop—weekends were their busiest time.

***

Tyrion Lannister gazed moodily around the plush interior of the dining room of his father’s club; it was one of the last bastions of male chauvinism. Females, even guests or relations of members, were seldom allowed within its hallowed halls. Jaime had been a member here from his eighteenth birthday onwards, whereas Tyrion... his father had not extended that facility for him. Perhaps it had to do with his size and looks—Jaime was tall, blonde, green-eyed and handsome—the darling of London society. He was in the army and was known to be an excellent sportsman. Tyrion was four feet tall, with stunted limbs, a large head, lank fair hair that fell over his massive forehead, mismatched eyes and squashed-in features. He worked as a financial analyst—he’d spent the last few years talking of the bursting of the mortgage bubble, much to everyone’s dismay. He hadn’t been believed then; now, he was seen as a figure of doom and gloom. He didn’t think that Gordon Brown would be elected PM; he felt the British public had turned rather American in their taste for a telegenic prime minister.

He wondered why his father had asked him to dinner this Monday evening. It was the start of the week, and none of the ladies he was used to entertaining was available—which was why he’d accepted his father’s invitation. He’d enjoyed a fine single malt on his arrival at the club; the barman knew and appreciated his taste, even if his father did not.

“Tyrion,” his father said, after he’d finished ordering dinner and sent the waiter off, “I have something important I have to say to you. I think it is time you got married.”

Tyrion was glad he had finished his drink; otherwise he would have choked on it, or splattered an excellent malt on his best dinner jacket. “Don’t you think, father, you should have this conversation with Jaime first? After all, he is the elder—I’m sure his biological clock must be ticking like crazy. Mine seems to be ambling along just fine, thank you.”

“Jaime is fine, thank you very much, Tyrion. Jaime does not spend his time being photographed with every actress and model in town, week after week, in the redtops. He’s serving Queen and country in Afghanistan, while you paint the town red. Cersei says she’s embarrassed to meet her female friends—they cannot stop talking about your exploits.”

Tyrion grinned. “Perhaps she should introduce me to them...”

His father gave him a cold look, which made Tyrion shiver a little. He straightened himself in his chair.  
“I think it is time you married—people might take your financial pronouncements with greater seriousness if you were to present a more respectable front. I’ve even found the right girl for you.”

Tyrion tried not to shudder. His father’s idea of the right girl for him, and his own concept of his ideal woman, did not meet. He recalled his ex-girlfriend, Tysha, with whom he’d gone steady from his last year in school till they’d graduated from university. He had never spoken of Tysha to his father, because by the time he’d got the right sort of job, both of them had realised his family would never approve of their marriage. She was the only daughter of a farmer; she’d continued to run the farm long after her father’s death. She’d married the local schoolmaster—she had invited Tyrion to the wedding. His father, on the other hand, continued to introduce him as a prospective son-in-law to other wealthy men, only to be snubbed by them or their daughters, who could not see beyond his height or his ugliness.

“Oh—who is she, Father? I hope she won’t up and run a mile from me, the way Arianne Martell did, when you suggested to Doran that I should wed his darling daughter.”

“I don’t think she can afford to do that,” Tywin Lannister sounded smug as he spoke. “She’s in a tight spot financially; her father, who worked at Scotland Yard, died suddenly. His pension funds, investments and property have all lost value due to this recession. She doesn’t have a job; her mother works as a headmistress and might retire in the next few years. She has two younger brothers, whom she has to educate. And yes, there is a younger sister still at university. Of course, she’s from a good family—very well brought up, well-bred—I knew both her grandfathers; served with them in the army...”

“You’re not by any chance suggesting that I wed Sansa Stark, are you, father? Do you know that Robert tried to arrange a marriage with her for Joffrey? Cersei talked him out of it, Jaime said. She told him she would not have her son marry the niece of two women who’d disgraced their families by making runaway marriages.”

“Sansa doesn’t take after her aunts—she’s more like her parents than like them. Besides, Lysa was the one who made the runaway marriage with Petyr Baelish—Lyanna had an affair with, and a baby by, a married man, who was killed by the Romanian secret police. She chose not to marry Robert for her own reasons. I don’t know why Cersei can’t keep her facts straight.”

“Jaime says she’s never forgiven Robert for loving the Stark girl—she claims he’s still fond of Lyanna; they exchange cards now and again. He says it’s the real reason why she did not want Joffrey to marry Sansa. And of course, there was the bit about her father not being wealthy or prominent.”

“So that’s why she’s so keen Joffrey marry the Tyrell girl? Good luck to her, then; Mace Tyrell might agree to the match, but his mother is a whole different kettle of fish. She’d never approve of Joffrey.”

They ate their soup, and then Tywin remarked, “I didn’t know Cersei’s opinion of the Starks would count so much with you, Tyrion—I thought you were your own man.”

“I am, father; I thought her opinion of them would count with you. She could make life difficult for any woman I chose to marry.”

“Perhaps, but you can ensure that your wife and your sister have little to do with each other—of course, they will meet on formal occasions. You don’t spend too much time with her, do you, even though you live in London? Jaime, on the other hand, does tend to spend a lot of time with her when he’s on leave...”

Tywin fell silent after this; then Tyrion asked him, rather bitterly, “How do you want me to proceed with regard to Sansa Stark?”

“Well, you could go call on the family, couldn’t you? You know Lyanna’s boy, don’t you? The one that’s gone off to Siberia? You could go offer your condolences; I went just after lunch—you should find Sansa at home then. I’ve a feeling she’d make you a good wife—her parents got along just fine, despite the fact that Catelyn Tully was to have married Ned’s older brother, who ran off and married Ryswell’s younger girl instead. He took over Ryswell’s stables—they have no children, so the family property will most likely go to the older Stark boy, Robb.”

They finished their meal in silence—Tyrion made a mental note to call on Ms. Sansa Stark the next day, ostensibly to offer his condolences.

***

He walked into the house without calling ahead; she was just about to leave, to do some grocery shopping. He was lucky to catch her then—she’d planned to lock up the house and go off. She invited him in and offered him a cup of tea or a glass of water. He selected the latter—it was a warm day.

“I think my father spoke to you a few days ago,” he began.

“Yes, he did,” she said, quietly.

He sighed. “I’m sorry you and your family should find yourselves in such straits. Your father was a good man.”

She responded with a rueful sigh. “Yes, he was—and he would have done everything to spare us all this, I’m sure. Unfortunately, market forces have little respect for people’s feelings, do they, Mr. Lannister?”

“Listen, Sansa, if we have to marry, as my father plans we should, don’t you think you should call me by my name?”

“Very well—Tyrion.”

She seemed a quiet, biddable girl—rather unusual for the times, Tyrion thought.

“Just what has my father told you about me?” he asked suddenly, wondering how his father had got her to agree to an arranged marriage.

She said carefully, “He said you provided financial advice to investors. He said you used to work for a bank, and when that bank went into home mortgages after 2001, you quit to set up a blog.”

“Guilty as charged. I’m very conservative when I advise my investors—the bank wasn’t happy when I insisted they not put everything into the Internet bubble, and they were unhappy when I warned them about home loans. Did he tell you anything about my private life? That’s the real reason why he wants me to marry a nice girl like you—he wants me to turn respectable: stop dating actresses and models; stop appearing in the scandal sheets; become a model husband and father. You think you can help me turn over a new leaf?” he asked with gentle humour.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Only if you want to,” she said finally. “I can’t force you to do something you don’t want to do.”

He laughed briefly. “Is that a deal then?” he asked, stretching out his hand and taking hers in it. “I marry you and endow you with my worldly goods. And we take care of each other till death do us part?”

She clasped his hand in hers and said, “Yes.”

He looked at her keenly and asked, “Why is that, I wonder? You’re a lovely girl; you should have the sidewalks outside your house lined with men who want to marry and protect you. Why are you willing to marry an ugly, dissipated little man like me?”

She said quietly, “Well—I used to be fond of someone in university. He was very good-looking, charming, popular and he claimed to love me more than life itself. And then I found out he was two-timing me, with at least three other women, all of whom were carrying his babies. It was quite a shock, to me and my parents. He was related to a family friend—it caused embarrassment all around. I decided that love was a highly over-rated emotion—it was better to think things through before I married.”

He was silent and then he asked, “Did he tell you why he went to these other women?”

She said softly, “Yes, he did; he told me he felt he had to be on his best behaviour with me always. He said he could never be at ease with me, like he was with those other women. He told me he felt I did not love him enough, because I was not willing to sleep with him like those other girls were.”

He bristled at the thought of someone—anyone—talking like this to Sansa. “What did you say to that?”

She laughed bitterly, “I told him I thought he’d been very inconsiderate—he should have made an effort to use birth control. I was furious with him—I could survive disillusionment—but what about those three young girls? They were all at school with him—and he left them literally holding the baby. He had no plans to provide financial support to them—he thought I’d be too broken-hearted to do anything about it. I got so angry I went and spoke to his guardian about it. They arranged to get blood tests done to determine paternity and then they offered the girls enough money so that they could take care of themselves and bring up the children. That was the last straw for Harry—he called me all the names under the sun. He even tried to turn my brothers against me—until Robb and Jon threatened to beat him up. Jon especially—he was so angry with Harry he threatened to shoot him on the spot. Both Mum and Dad had to pull him off Harry—he was going to throttle him!”

She ended the story with a startled gasp. “I shouldn’t have told you his name—he told me I was stupid and indiscreet and I...”

“Say no more about it,” Tyrion said. He could well understand Jon’s desire to beat Harry to a pulp. He would have done the same, had he been as big as Jon. How dared that little shit two-time this lovely girl, leave three girls pregnant with his repugnant offspring and then have the gall to blame her? “I think you did the right thing about those girls,” he said, “and I’m all for Jon beating Harry up. In fact, I wish I’d been there—I would have loved to rearrange his face. Without the benefit of anaesthesia, of course!”

She laughed shakily. “Both my aunts—Lysa and Barbrey—said I was behaving like a silly little prude. Only Aunt Lyanna took my side—she said I’d done the right thing. She said Harry was an insensitive brute and didn’t deserve me; she said I should wait for the right man to come along.”

“In that case, I’m sure she’d disapprove of me at once,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t think so; Jon spoke very highly of you to everyone. He told us about your visit to their climate research station in Siberia.”

“He did, did he?” Tyrion wondered just what Jon had thought fit to share with his young cousin in his letters home.

“He said you’d been very supportive—I read your article in the Times on their research.” She smiled at him.

Tyrion could not help but smile back. “Do you think,” he asked her gently, “you could be happy with me? I mean, I’m not the kind of man known for sweeping women off their feet, but I don’t treat them like a brute either. What I’m trying to say is this: I’ll do my best to be good to you.”

“Thank you, Tyrion—I think your best will go a long way. Yes, I think I could be happy with you.”

He was silent for a moment, and then he asked, “How should we break this to your family?”

She said, “I shall tell them you came to the coffee shop where I work to do your writing. We met and got to be good friends. And then, you asked me to marry you. I was going to get you to meet Father; only he had a heart attack before I could tell him anything. I known Jon will approve of you—he really appreciated the fact that you tried to understand what he and his colleagues are trying to do.”

He twisted his lips slightly. “You think they’ll fall for that line?” he asked, not unkindly.

She sighed. “I don’t want to tell my mother the real reason why,” she confessed quietly. “She’s taken Father’s death very hard; she misses him a lot. So does Arya. I don’t want to lay the burden of our financial situation upon them. It’s better that I tell them you and I are at least friends—they know how I got off dating after the Harry episode. I think they’ll like you a lot—at least, unlike Harry, you’re not playing a part.”

“I’m trying to become respectable—there are times when I think I’m perpetrating a hoax upon society by doing that...” he began, to be swiftly interrupted by her.

“You’re looking for a commitment, a full-time relationship. You’ve had your fill of dating exciting women and you’d like to settle down now. That’s the way I’ll put it to my family, if it’s OK with you of course.”

“As it pleases you, my dear—do go ahead. I will, of course, speak to your mother and write to your brothers, informing them of our plans to wed.”

“Of course,” she said, quite happily—he noticed her grin.

***

Tyrion did as he had promised—he wrote to Jon and Robb, telling them the story he and Sansa had settled upon. He took to visiting the local coffee shop where she worked as a barista—he made it a point to be there when she was on duty. When she asked why he did that, he told her he had to add verisimilitude to their story. “Rather like an actor preparing for a role, you know? If I tell your mum I met you here, then I want it to be as close to the truth as possible.” He also arranged to meet Catelyn Stark at a time when she was at home.

He could tell, from Catelyn’s manner, that she was less than delighted at Sansa’s latest swain, but he also realised that, being a very practical woman, she was unlikely to look a gift horse in the mouth. She welcomed him, politely, to the family. He received a warm welcome from Jon by e-mail; the only condition Jon made was that, if he ever made Sansa unhappy, he would find himself in Siberia, being mauled by a wolf. Robb, as an absentee head of the family following his father’s untimely death, extended Tyrion a rather stiff welcome. Arya was polite—he gathered, from Sansa, that she had heard rather lurid stories of his exploits and was not very pleased with her sister’s choice of prospective husband. Tyrion resolved that he would do his best to be a good husband to Sansa, to win her approval. As for Bran and Rickon—the latter, although very fond of his sister, was more interested in football than in her marriage plans; whereas Bran told Tyrion he was certain he would be happy with Sansa. When Tyrion asked him how he could be so sure, Bran replied:

“Sansa, for all her love of romance, is a very down-to-earth person; she’s very honest and open. That’s something Harry could not understand about her, but I think you get that, at least. She’s polite and courteous with people not because she’s a snob but because she would like to treat everyone the way she’d like to be treated. I think you’re just as honest and open and kind in your own way; you’re a lot more worldly-wise and will take good care of her.”

Tyrion was rather astounded at this bit of worldly wisdom from a young man of not more than eighteen years. He wrote to Jaime about his marriage plans; Jaime called him, demanding to know why he was playing April Fool jokes on his big brother out of season. When Tyrion informed him that it was no joke, but the truth, Jaime turned serious and began to reminisce.

“Do you know, I went to court her aunt soon after I graduated from Sandhurst? The Blackfish was visiting Riverrun on leave; I spent most of my time questioning him about his life as a commando. Catelyn had to practically drag me to the dance floor to do a waltz with Lysa. No wonder she ran off with Baelish!”

Cersei was at her sneering best, when she confronted him about his forthcoming marriage. Of course, she was thoroughly nasty about the Starks and the Tullys; she hadn’t a kind thing to say of Sansa, her mother or her aunts. He wondered why she had bothered to come and why she had to be so utterly disagreeable, until his uncle Kevan enlightened him.

“She thought your father would leave all his worldly goods to her precious Joffrey, especially because Jaime has never married. Now that you’re getting hitched—she’s livid. Don’t take it personally, Tyrion—you know what she’s like.”

Tyrion nodded—he was glad to see that Sansa, when she met Cersei, used her courtesy and good manners to great effect; his aunt Genna said that his mother Joanna, who had died of cancer when he was a lad of ten, would have been pleased to meet her.

Their marriage was as splashy as society marriages usually were; both of them had to endure popping flashbulbs and lurid headlines in the redtops. However, he was able to arrange a substantial settlement for Sansa before the wedding took place—it would help her to provide for her own needs, as well as those of her family. He noticed, while they prepared for their wedding, that Sansa continued to be a little melancholy—he wondered if it had anything to do with pre-wedding jitters. But he was reassured when he overheard Aunt Genna talking to her:

“Of course, Joanna and I helped Tywin set up Lannister Publications when he started out—he could not have risen so far without her help and advice. I think you should offer your services to Tyrion as his editor—he writes for the small investor, which in my humble opinion should include women as well. And when he starts doing a few columns for our women’s weeklies, he will have his hands full and need you by his side.”

Tyrion spoke to her soon afterwards.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were worried about work? I would have helped. “

She sighed. “I didn’t want to bother you....” she began, but he interrupted her, “Sansa, what does bother me is that you did not tell me how worried you were about getting a job. Please don’t keep things from me; you wouldn’t like me to have any secrets from you, would you?”

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened. “No, I wouldn’t like that at all. It was just that...Cersei said something about my being so very lucky to get a rich husband who would pay my way for life. She said something about my university education being such a waste...I could not help thinking about that. Aunt Genna was there; you should have seen how she looked at Cersei! I never saw a woman shut up so fast and slink away so quickly. If she’d been a dog, her tail would have been between her legs. And then Aunt Genna got talking to me about work and such; I told her how I’d wanted to work in publishing and then she suggested I work with you.” She stopped, giving him a shy glance. He nodded encouragingly and she continued, in a rush.  
“She says she’s been thinking of your writing on investments for the women’s magazines your father’s company publishes—she says they cater to a very large market. I know what she’s talking about—I used to subscribe to quite a few when I was in school and at university. You know the ones I’m talking about—they’re mostly about fashion and lifestyle...but you could do columns on finance and investments for the teenagers and undergrads, the working women, stay-at-home mums and pensioners? They have a whole range of magazines to cater to all those markets. She says she’s been telling your dad about this till she got blue in the face—and then she decided to discuss it with me. I think it’s a great idea—I think you should go for it.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “You know, Sansa, I might just do it—with you to help me out, of course. Tell her I’ll come to see her at work—and tell her you’re coming with me too. Don’t let my horrible sister get to you. Promise me that, my dear girl.”

She said nothing to that, but she got out of her chair, walked up to him and kissed him on the lips, very gently and sweetly. “I promise,” she said softly, as he stared at her, his head whirling...


	3. Blind Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne arrange for Sansa and Tyrion to meet on a blind date...  
> These characters belong to GRRM.

Tyrion Lannister sat at the bar in the pub, moodily sipping at his wine and gazing into the mirror behind the bartender. He could view the entrance to the pub behind him from where he sat—his sister-in-law, Brienne, and his brother Jaime were to join him for drinks and dinner. He had already booked a table for four—the pub did not have smaller tables, and his sister-in-law had said she was going to introduce him to a friend who she felt was perfect for him.

Tyrion would have been wary had it been anyone other than Brienne making that remark. But he had come to know Brienne well—she had been Jaime’s partner at the Yard. When his brother was forced to leave the force, after a psychotic drug dealer chopped off his right hand with a rusty old sword, Brienne took early retirement to help him with his recovery and rehabilitation. While Cersei, Jaime’s twin, who had always been close to him till that time, recoiled when confronted with his stump, Brienne took things in her stride, from helping Jaime select clothes that did not require the use of both hands to teaching him to write with his left hand. Their relationship had been based on mutual respect and friendship, which was transformed gradually to love in these adverse circumstances. They’d got married a month or so ago, soon after they set up their detective agency; Tyrion had been their best man.

Just then he saw a tall, beautiful, slender and shapely auburn-haired woman walk into the room. He almost choked on the wine that he was sipping—he was so shaken at the sight of her beauty. The other men in the bar were equally impressed—the hum of voices, which provided a pleasant background sound, suddenly ceased, as if someone had pressed a button or pulled out a wire. He was even more surprised when she walked up to him, swaying slightly on her stiletto heels. Her hair was swept up into a complicated arrangement that would have been the envy of a French countess at the court of Louis XV; she was wearing a beautifully cut blue dress that not only fitted her to perfection but matched the colour of her eyes--she had accessorized her outfit with a double-stringed pearl necklace and dangling pearl earrings. She smiled at him as she sat down on the bar stool next to him.

“You must be Brienne’s brother-in-law,” she said. “She’s been telling me so much about you. She wanted me to let you know that she and Jaime will be late—they have to hand over a crook to the police.”

Tyrion’s mind reeled in shock. Surely she must be joking. She couldn’t possibly be his date. “Thank you, miss...” he stammered, feeling tongue-tied.

“Sansa Stark,” the young lady supplied, without blinking an eyelid. “That’s my name. I work with them at the agency. Brienne’s been telling me a lot about you.”

Tyrion gasped, surprised. “She has?” he asked. And then his curiosity got the better of him. “What did she say?” he wanted to know.

She pursed her lips and then smiled at him. “She said you have a sharp tongue, an even sharper mind and a very quick temper. She also said that you’re a very nice person.”

Tyrion was surprised and touched to hear that. He said, “I’m grateful to know she thinks so well of me. But she didn’t tell me anything about you, other than saying that you and I would be perfect for each other.”

He looked at her anxiously as she smiled at him. “I don’t know how you and I would be perfect for each other. I’ve just graduated with a degree in journalism and I’m working as an assistant to Jaime and Brienne—I keep track of phone calls and keep the office tidy and so on. She told me you were teaching management students at Insead and you advise your father’s stock broking firm on the state of the markets. I’m quite in awe of you, I must admit, Professor Lannister.”

“Please don’t call me that—we’re not in a classroom right now, you know, Sansa. So how did you come to work for Jaime and Brienne?”

“Brienne was assigned as my mother’s bodyguard when my father became Robert Baratheon’s Chancellor of the Exchequer. That’s when all of us got to know her well—we all liked her a lot. Of course, she went back to detective work almost as soon as Daenerys Targaryen won the last election. I’d just finished at Uni when I heard of her setting up the agency with your brother and their getting married. Mother thought, and I agreed with her, that I should look in on them and offer to help out. “

Tyrion could hazily recall Cersei’s rage when she learned that Robert would replace Jon Arryn, his elderly professor at Uni and mentor, with his old friend, Ned Stark, instead of offering their father the post, “as he should have done, considering all that Father has done to fund his campaign.” Of course, as Sansa said, the incident took place almost ten years ago—Robert did not improve matters when he suggested that Sansa and Joffrey, then both still in school, should get engaged, because he’d never got over the death of his late fiancée, Sansa’s aunt, Lyanna. Luckily, that had not worked out; neither Cersei nor the Starks showed any enthusiasm for this arrangement.

“So how do you like it, working for Jaime and Brienne?”

“Oh, it’s quite exciting—I don’t suppose they tell you about the cases they’re working on?” When he shook his head, she continued, “Well, this case is practically over—they’re handing the crook to the cops, as I said—so I don’t see why I shouldn’t regale you with at least some of the details.”

She kept him entertained with a lively account of Jaime and Briennne’s latest investigation. Evidently, someone had been posting ads, on the web, in newspapers and in telephone booths, claiming to get jobs in movies and television serials for young men and women. The ads had many takers, since there were so many young people looking for work after graduation. “I thought of giving it a go, before mother suggested I see if Brienne needed help. When I visited her...well, the condition she’s in, I couldn’t just walk away, could I? But two people I know—classmates of my brother and myself—decided to call the numbers and see what this agent could do for them. They went for interviews and casting calls and then ... they just disappeared. And mother called me at work—lunch hour—to tell me the news. She said both Asha Greyjoy and Vayon Poole had come to see father, because Theon and Jeyne had been missing for ages, and she asked me to see if Brienne and Jaime could do anything.”

She would have continued with the story—she certainly had Tyrion intrigued—but Jaime and Brienne walked in just then. Tyrion noticed, with some trepidation, that Brienne looked noticeably plumper than when he had seen them both last. He recalled that she’d worn a Victorian dress to her wedding—perhaps she’d needed the concealment?

They moved from the bar to the table—Brienne and Jaime ordered their drinks. Brienne chose lemonade, which made Jaime smirk—and irked Tyrion’s curiosity. After they’d ordered dinner, the ladies went to the restroom, leaving the brothers to catch up with each other.

“Why were you late today?” Tyrion began, hoping he sounded more curious than petulant or angry. “Your Miss Stark said something about handing over a crook to the cops. And are the two of you about to become parents? You might have informed me—I was your best man, after all!”

Jaime grinned at him unrepentantly. “So many questions, so little time,” he said with a laugh as he swallowed his whisky and ordered another. “Yes, we put away a rather nasty man, thanks to Miss Stark who got us the case in the first place. The Yard was baffled—not that they would say as much to us. And yes, Brienne is in the family way—you should be an uncle in the next five months or so. Don’t look so shocked—I would have told you at the wedding itself, but Brienne thought you’d think badly of her if you found out.”

“Nonsense,” Tyrion spluttered. “I’m happy for you both. Now tell me all about the case.”

Jaime continued the story where Sansa had left off, when she brought the case to their attention. They’d needed help to locate the man who was posting the ads—they were able to get a series of addresses from credit card companies. “He was using three credit cards—one to pay for his newspaper ads, another to pay for his web ads and a third to pay his phone bills. He was using three different addresses—an isolated cottage in Norfolk; a vicarage in Lincolnshire and a barracks of a stately home in the Midlands. We had to match handwritings and signatures; get photograps... I would have given up if I hadn’t had my wife and her friend glaring at me every time I screamed with exasperation at the slowness of the investigation. It was nothing dramatic—nothing like the cop shows you and I watched when we were kids.” And Jaime smiled at him. “It was slow, tedious, painstaking, a grind—Miss Stark was invaluable. She kept the facts straight and simple; she could charm anyone into giving information, where I would have used my fist... And Brienne refused to give up. She knew these two kids—she’d seen them around Number 11 back in the day. Finally, we were able to get a fix on the guy—you’ll never guess who he was.”

“Who was he?” Tyrion demanded, as the ladies returned.

Sansa made a face as she sat down. “I guess you’ve been talking about the case,” she said.

“Yes,” Tyrion said, drumming his fingers on the table. “And I want to know whodunit.”

“He was a family friend,” Sansa said sadly. “He was at school with my mother and aunt. In fact, Aunt Lysa wanted to marry him, but my grandpa refused to hear of it. He would never say why, but he made her marry elsewhere. He was working for your father—that’s how he made his money. And he was investing it to set up brothels, if you please. He started out with young people on drugs—he’d supply them if they’d sleep with people. And then he used to blackmail the clients. Then he thought of this—of tempting young people with roles in movies and television to get them to do something so compromising that they would obey him or be ruined for life. I don’t know where he was planning to go with this, when he got caught.”

“He tried to bribe us,” Brienne said, a look of disgust on her face. She looked at Tyrion, who had a strange gleam of recognition in his mismatched eyes.

“Not Petyr Baelish!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” the other three said, almost in unison. Then they laughed uneasily. “He’s in prison now,” said Sansa firmly, “and his victims will get all the help they need to recover. I know mother will see to that—she’s so enraged with Petyr. She feels he let her down with all he did. And he had the audacity to tell me how he’d loved no one other than her all his life, not even my poor aunt!”

By the time their dinner came, they had exhausted the topic of Baelish and his crimes, and moved on to more entertaining subjects. Sansa used her charm to good effect to get Tyrion to tell them what he’d been doing, trying to set the economy to rights. He had them in splits as he imitated the various people who were hindering him. The evening ended on a cheerful note—Jaime and Brienne went home, after getting Tyrion to promise to drop Sansa off to her flat.

Tyrion called Bronn, his chauffeur-cum-Man Friday, to bring the car around. When they stopped at Sansa’s flat, she invited him up for a coffee. Tyrion decided to take her up on her offer—he was glad he did, when he saw her apartment. It was small, but she had done it up tastefully. It felt lived in and still looked elegant, much like its inhabitant. She’d kicked off her high heels as soon as they walked in, and entered her kitchen to put the water to boil for the coffee. They talked of books and music, films and plays, as they sipped at their coffee. She laughed when she realised he’d read and enjoyed her favourite books—he had quite a few pointed remarks to make about the authors and how they’d tackled the issues they’d chosen to cover.

It was an hour or two later, as they fell into a relaxed silence, that she peeked out of the window, at his car.

“I hope I haven’t kept your poor chauffeur up all night,” she remarked.

Tyrion started guiltily. “I didn’t realise it was so late,” he exclaimed, getting off the sofa where he’d been lounging a moment ago.

She turned to him, a wicked gleam in her blue eyes. “Why don’t you send the  
poor man home and spend the night here with me?” she asked, in an innocent-sounding voice.

“Why, Miss Stark!” Tyrion exclaimed, in mock surprise. “Is this a seduction?”

“No, Tyrion—I don’t seduce a man I meet on the first date itself. Send Bronn home to rest—tell him to call for you in the morning. I’ve a spare toothbrush you can use and a pair of pyjamas that belonged to my brother Bran. You can sleep here on the sofa and I’ll give you scrambled eggs and coffee for breakfast. How does that sound?”

“Sansa, you know the way to a man’s heart,” he exclaimed. He sent Bronn home for the night, telling him to come by at ten. He reckoned Sansa would be sick and tired of his company by then.

It was while she was making up his bed on the sofa that they realised they had a problem on their hands. It was one of those pull-out sofa-cum-beds, which immediately fell apart when Sansa pulled it open. She made a face, and then turned to him.

“There’s no help for it—you’ll have to share my bed.”

He sucked in his breath and looked at her, widening his eyes.

“No, Tyrion, this isn’t a seduction. Your virtue, such as it is, is safe with me.” She grinned at him. “I have a large enough bed—we should be able to share it without kicking each other at night.”

So that was how he ended up sharing a bed with Sansa Stark on their first date. They didn’t kick each other at night, not because they slept at opposite ends of Sansa’s double bed, but because they both ended up in the centre, with their arms around each other. Afterwards, Tyrion could not remember how this had happened—he had been fast asleep, and so had she—but it had. When he woke up in the morning, with her auburn hair tickling his nose, he realised that he’d slept well that night for the first time after Tysha’s death so many years ago. He looked up into Sansa’s warm blue eyes and lovely smile, recalling the sea and sunshine off the coast of his Cornish home. She kissed him and slipped out of bed.

“Scrambled egg, coffee and toast—would you care for bacon or sausage, Tyrion? Just say the word.”

“No bacon or sausage, thank you, Sansa—but a grilled tomato would be nice.”

It was as he was leaving the bedroom that he noticed the photograph. The face looked familiar—craggily handsome, except for the terrible burns on one side. The long black hair did little to hide that. He knew that man—he’d worked as Joffrey’s chauffeur-cum-bodyguard when Robert was PM. He recalled what had happened subsequently—Sergeant Clegane had rejoined his regiment in Afghanistan and died in an encounter with the Taliban. He wondered how Sansa had come to know the man—she and Joffrey had broken off their friendship a long time ago.

“I saw the photograph of a man I recognized in your room,” he remarked to her, as he sat down to breakfast.

“Oh, you mean Sandor Clegane?” she asked quietly, sipping at her coffee and nibbling a toast.

“Yes—how did you come to know him?”

“I used to spend a lot of time with Joffrey when Dad became Chancellor—you remember Robert’s crazy scheme? Of course, it didn’t work out; we were totally unsuited to each other. That’s when I came to know Sandor—he could really manage Joffrey well.” Tyrion winced—Robert used to ignore Joffrey, because he saw little of himself in his son; consequently, Cersei devoted herself to him and spoiled him shamelessly, to make up for his father’s neglect. Although Tyrion and his father tried to correct his behaviour, they soon lost patience with him; Sandor was the only one the boy looked up to, other than his uncle Jaime. Since Jaime spent little or no time with his sister’s children (in order to spend more time with her in private), Sandor did his best to improve the boy’s behaviour.

“So how come he allowed you to photograph him?”

“I don’t know—somehow, he seemed to like me and Arya. He used to be very gruff with Robb and the boys, but he got along with the two of us. Arya even got him to practice karate with her! I wasn’t as successful when I tried to teach him to meditate. I don’t suppose you know about his brother being in a maximum-security prison, do you? He was the one who did it to him—shoved his face into a still-smouldering coal fire when he was a little boy. They could do little for Sandor, although he lived...”

“He lost most of his family growing up,” Tyrion interrupted her. He recalled the man all too clearly. “He came to see us when he was about twelve—Gregor had inherited their father’s little farm and he needed to get to a safe place, away from his brother. My father offered him a place to stay, some work to keep him busy—I think he used to help out in the kitchen and the garden—and a chance to attend the local school. He was four years older than me—he joined up as soon as he was old enough to do so.”

“I don’t suppose your father could have brought charges against him—Gregor, I mean?”

“I know Dad told Mr Clegane—he used to breed hunting dogs—that Gregor had to see a shrink or else. I know he was quite firm about it.”

“We heard of his death, Arya and I—he listed us as next of kin, alongside your father. He must have felt safe with your family, out at the Rock?”

Tyrion sighed. “I suppose—he used to valet for my uncles, Tygett and Gerion, when they came home on leave. Both of them were with the commandos—I think that’s where he got it into his head to go into the army.”

“Well, we were there, at the memorial service, with Jaime and your dad. I  
overheard your father rather irritably enquiring about you and Jaime mumbled something about chemotherapy.”

Tyrion stopped eating. “It was my wife,” he said quietly. “We’d met as kids at school—she was a farmer’s daughter. And then we went up to university together—she got a scholarship and she worked to pay for the rest. Of course, Dad disapproved of my marriage—she wasn’t the sort of person he wanted any of his kids to marry. But he could do nothing about it—I’d got a job teaching and researching at a university, and I married her on the strength of that.” He could not help but smile triumphantly as he said that—Sansa smiled back at him and squeezed his hand.

“The trouble started a few years later, when she discovered a lump on her breast. They got rid of that, and she went into remission. But it came back and she died after a long fight...” He choked up as he recalled all she had gone through; he soon felt Sansa’s silky but strong arms gather him into a warm and comforting embrace. She gently cupped his face.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought it up right now, Tyrion—but I remember meeting her at the hospital. My cousin Robert used to suffer from leukaemia—Aunt Lysa used to get hysterical at the thought of chemotherapy, so I used to take him instead. That’s where I met your wife—she was really a lovely, warm person. She used to love talking about you—she loved you a lot.” She kissed him as she spoke gently, and then she held him close, rubbing his back till he was calmer. He could not share his grief for Tysha with anyone but Jaime, who had seen him at his worst. His father had been gruff and brief when expressing his condolences—Cersei had barely acknowledged his marriage. It was a relief to speak of her with Sansa, who had met and liked her.

“Brienne used to take me there, with Robert—both of us had to urge the poor boy to be brave. He hated being sick, the poor mite—Tysha would talk to him and tell him of ways to think himself better. She really was an amazing woman. “  
***  
Brienne was surprised to see Tyrion at their doorstep at twelve in the afternoon, his hands full with a bottle of champagne and a bouquet of roses. Jaime had gone to see his father, to tell him about the impending addition to their family and let him know how their little firm was faring.

“Why the celebration?” she asked warily.

“It’s not exactly a celebration,” he said quietly, “just a thank you. I spent a lovely evening with Sansa—we spent the night chatting...why didn’t you tell me she knew Tysha?”

Brienne sighed. “I don’t know—I was afraid, perhaps, of seeing you sad? Jaime said he never saw you more unhappy than at her funeral. I suppose Sansa told you about our meeting her?”

“Yes, she did—it’s that which made me realise how right you were to say that we were perfect for each other. She understood...she liked Tysha a lot. She’s a lovely, gentle girl—I hope she likes me as much as I like her. I don’t know how this will end, Brienne—whether we’ll both find out we’re in love with each other and get married and live happily ever after—but I must thank you for introducing me to her. She truly is a comfort and a treasure.”


	4. Despite the Odds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet when he comes to King's Landing, after his sister's divorce and disgrace, to unravel a matter of campaign finance for his brother-in-law, the President. And then she disappears in mysterious circumstances...

They met soon after Jaime and Cersei had left the country in disgrace with the three children; Robert had divorced Cersei after he learnt from Jon Arryn that the children she had borne were not his but Jaime’s. To say that it had caused a convulsion in their family would be an understatement; to say that it had made the Lannisters a byword for dishonourable behaviour from coast to coast would not be a lie. So he did not know why Robert had demanded that he come to Washington—Tyrion had shared a fondness for long boozy evenings and pretty women wanting a good time with his ex-brother-in-law, but that would not be sufficient for Robert to insist on his coming to Washington. If his father had not been in a coma after the apoplectic attack he had on learning of the reason for Cersei’s divorce, Robert’s message would have been in the dustbin; Uncle Kevan was in charge now and Uncle Kevan insisted he answer Robert’s summons.

Robert soon told him why he had been sent for. “Jon Arryn is dead; he died of a stomach bug soon after my divorce became final,” he informed Tyrion after greeting him politely but coolly. “Ned Stark is my chief of staff now. One thing Jon spoke of, which Ned is looking into, is the campaign finance accounts. Petyr Baelish handles campaign finance; he’s off schmoozing with donors from New York to California for the next few months. He’s left the paperwork with Ned. Jaime always said you had a head for figures; I’d like you to assist Ned with this task. He has a lot to get on with if I plan to run next year.”

Tyrion agreed to help out; Uncle Kevan had emphasized the need to stay on Robert’s good side after the divorce. “We don’t want the IRS or any other central agency on our backs, Tyrion; so find out what he wants and do it. He was always civil to you, in his fashion.” He was directed to Ned Stark’s office by Barristan Selmy, who was in charge of Robert’s security.

When Tyrion arrived at the office, he did not find Stark there; instead, there was a lovely auburn-haired woman who greeted him warmly, asked him if he would have tea or coffee and gave him a cup of coffee, black, just as he liked it.

He asked her name.

“I’m Sansa Stark—I’m assisting my dad,” she said with a smile as she sat down opposite him. She was twenty-one and had recently graduated from university. She was soon chatting with him, asking about his work as a political consultant and pollster. She was even kind enough to commiserate with him regarding the circumstances surrounding Cersei’s divorce and his father’s subsequent ill-health.

“I don’t condone what she did,” she said in a soft voice, as she looked into his eyes, “but I don’t blame her either. I bet she was driven to it—I remember, when Dad and Arya and I came here years ago, to watch an Army-Navy football game. The game was great and there was a party afterwards. Your sister and Uncle Robert got into an argument during the party; he said he wanted to play in a football game like he used to in his college days, and she told him not to be such a fool—he’d either end up getting injured or the other players would refuse to play their game, for fear of injuring him. They were talking so loudly you could hear them all over the room. He hit her hard, and she left. Your brother tried to stop it, and Uncle Robert pushed him to the floor. Joffrey was so embarrassed he said it was time he sent me home. Dad was there too. And then, when he visited us at Winterfell en famille, he would insist on visiting Aunt Lyanna’s grave; she’s been dead these twenty years or more. He had a living wife and children—why hark back to the past? It’s very sweet and touching in a movie or a book—but the hero always has to pick himself up and live in the present. Which is what Uncle Robert will never do, take my word for it.”

She got up and left just as Ned Stark, governor of a prominent Northern state and now Robert’s chief of staff, walked into the room. Stark soon got to business after greeting him coldly but politely. “Jon had some contributors come up to him and complain—they said they’d heard rumours of Petyr asking for money and putting something much less into the accounts than what he was given. He’d known some of those people, who’re now complaining, for years, as have I and Robert. I’m trying to track those people down and get some names and numbers. I need you to go through Baelish’s accounts; he’s gone off on a fund raising trip as Robert would have told you. Something in there just does not add up. We get regular contributions from our supporters, but we still seem to be running short somewhere. The money does come in, but it goes out just as fast. Robert might be able to overlook this; I’m not. We’re trying to keep this discreet for now. We’ve told him this is nothing but a regular audit—Jon is dead and I’m the new guy taking over and feeling my way around.”

Tyrion got down to it. He had his desk in Stark’s office, and spent a month going over the accounts. There seemed to be many of them, and money flowed in and out so fast that it was difficult to track. But Stark was right; although the contributions were coming in, the money was going out just as quickly, and no one could say where or how. 

When he reported back to Stark, and expressed his surprise that Petyr Baelish was left to manage the campaign finance accounts with little or no oversight, except a rather cursory audit, Stark bluntly explained that Jon had been busy as Robert’s chief of staff, not just managing Robert’s schedule but also picking up the pieces after his extramarital relationships fizzled out. Petyr had been a godsend; Lysa had insisted Jon hire him when Robert won the election to the House of Representatives twenty-five years ago and talked of running for the Senate in a few years. Petyr had been able to raise three times as much compared to other fundraisers. “Of course, Jon left the fundraising and management entirely to him after that. He had his hands full—not just with Robert, but also Lysa. She kept getting pregnant and losing babies until she had Sweetrobin. And Robert insisted Petyr have sole signing authority; he did not see why Jon had to sign every cheque or look at every receipt.”

“Many of these withdrawals are in cash... Sometimes, the money seems to have been moved around, from one bank to another. Is he trying to cover up shortfalls?” Tyrion asked.

“Very likely,” Stark sighed. He looked worried and anxious.

Tyrion leaned back in his chair, looking at Stark thoughtfully.

Stark told him, “I plan to meet one of Petyr’s New York contacts—Lyn Corbray—when he comes to Washington, but not in the office. He’s known Petyr since they were boys in Harlem; maybe he can tell me what in hell’s name is going on. I’ve heard he plans a visit in two or three weeks—my contacts in New York will let me know when he arrives.”

When Tyrion thought of his sister’s marriage to Robert, he wondered why no one in his family had foreseen its disastrous conclusion. Robert and Cersei had never gotten along. He had been engaged to Ned Stark’s sister, who had died during a revolution in a West Asian kingdom, where she was doing relief work in a Palestinian refugee camp. He’d married Cersei because the Lannisters had offered to bankroll his political career—the Baratheons were known for their blue blood, their prowess on the battlefield, land or sea or air, and their skills in diplomacy and administration, but they lacked money. Robert, who had presidential ambitions, had Ned Stark as a friend; Stark, who belonged to an equally powerful and blue-blooded political dynasty as the Baratheons, could carry all the northern states, from Washington and Montana in the Northwest to Maine and New Hampshire in the Northeast, in the elections. With Jon Arryn on his side, he would get the rest of New England and the Atlantic seaboard. With the Tully girls, the daughters of Governor Hoster Tully of Missouri, who were married to Ned Stark and Jon Arryn, he would get most of the Old South. He could carry Louisiana and Florida on the strength of his name alone. With the Lannisters, he would not only get a war chest; he would also get their media empire on his side.

His father, Tyrion knew, had gone into the marital alliance hoping that Cersei would be able to wean away Robert, not only from his brothers, but also from Arryn and Stark, who had been his surrogate family after his father’s death. She had been unable to do so, except in one instance. He recalled an incident that took place some twenty years ago, almost a year before their marriage--how Jaime, a soldier, had come back fuming after a two-year-long stint in that same West Asian kingdom where Ned Stark’s sister had died. Their father had insisted on an alliance with the West Asian kingdom because it had lots of oil and the king was his friend. Jaime had been one among many sent to secure the king and his country’s oil wealth for the good of the free world. There’d been a revolution, led by the king’s cousin, who was married to his daughter; it had led to the death of the popular crown prince, as well as his wife and family. Ned Stark had led yet another security force into the kingdom, to aid the men already stationed there. By then, Jaime had risen to be the ruler’s personal bodyguard. So Ned was shocked to find, when he entered the royal palace, the ruler dead and Jaime seated on the throne, his sword dripping blood. He’d wanted a court-martial, which the Lannisters had stalled successfully, with Robert’s help, because Robert believed that the crown prince was responsible for the death of his beloved Lyanna. And now, Jaime and Cersei were living in Europe with the kids, in disgrace, while he sat here, trying to help Ned Stark.

While he and Stark were trying hard to sort out Robert’s campaign finance accounts, Robert was off campaigning. He had planned to run for president before the divorce—there were no signs that he had changed his plans after it. Tyrion learned that Renly Baratheon, Robert’s younger brother and governor of Florida, was determined that Robert should marry Margaery Tyrell, the daughter of Georgia’s senior Senator, Mace Tyrell and sister to Governor Willas Tyrell.

“Of course, that’s because Loras, the youngest Tyrell brother, is his personal assistant,” Sansa Stark told him at lunch one day. They often ate together—her father was busy organizing Robert’s schedule and was seldom there to spend time with her. “I’ve even seen a photograph of her; Renly showed it to Father in my presence and asked him if she looked like Aunt Lyanna. Father said she didn’t. As for Chief of Police Stannis Baratheon, he wants Uncle Robert to quit politics, take care of his health, retire to the family home with his many ... offspring and let him run for the Senate and the presidency. He says no one can point a finger him because his marital life has always been exemplary and he is on the side or law and order.” And she sniffed, disgusted. “Of course, his wife hates Cersei and Margaery; she’s very plain and very unpleasant. Shireen is the only one in that family who is actually nice.”

“What does Robert want?” Tyrion asked her. “Has he spoken to your father about it?”

“He told Dad he doesn’t plan to remarry, but he doesn’t plan to give up his presidential campaign either. He says he plans to bring his kids along for the campaign—there are at least five of them. Someone,” and Sansa sounded most disapproving here, “should have taught him how to use a condom. I hold Uncle Jon Arryn responsible for this mess—I told Dad so. He couldn’t stop laughing, poor Daddy.” And she smiled reminiscently.

“Hasn’t he offered to marry you instead?” Tyrion asked mischievously. When she gave him a horrified look, he continued, “Why not? You’re a Stark; you’re very pretty and pleasant to be with; you would probably make him and the kids feel right at home. If he was so attached to your aunt...”

“I don’t look at all like my Aunt Lyanna,” Sansa responded, dabbing at her lips as she spoke. “Arya is the one who resembles my aunt the most—she’s very self-willed. One of Uncle Robert’s boys—Gendry—was sent north to be raised along with us. He and Arya became great friends and are now planning to get married. My brothers like him a lot—they loathed Joffrey when he and I were going steady.”

“It’s just as well that did not work out,” Tyrion offered, wiping his lips with his napkin. “He grew up to be rather an unpleasant young man—I believe the divorce was a big shock for him. He’s seeing a psychiatrist now, Jaime says.”

“You still keep in touch with your brother?” she asked, sounding surprised.

“Why not?” he responded, with some asperity. “Jaime was the nicest big brother to have when I was growing up. He was there for me when I needed him—why should I let him down when he needs me?”

She nodded her head, almost with approval. “What about Cersei? I used to be quite lost in admiration of her when I was a young girl. She was so very lovely...”

“She’s not as nice as she is lovely,” he replied, sounding bitter. “She hated me since the day I was born, because our mother died giving birth to me.”

“But that’s not your fault!” she exclaimed, horrified. “Women die giving birth to babies all over the world... because of medical complications, most likely. But not because the baby killed them.”

“Tell that to Cersei and my father,” he snapped. “Sorry,” he sighed, looking at her stricken face. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“That’s all right—perhaps I touched a raw nerve,” she said, gently touching his hand.

“Yes, you did.” He sighed.

He did not know if they would have spoken further, whether she would have asked him about his childhood because Jory Cassel, Ned Stark’s security chief walked in just then. “Sansa,” he said to the girl, pointedly excluding Tyrion, “your father’s going on a drive to the eastern part of the city with Heward, Wyl and me. There’s someone he has to meet, who’s holed up in a ratty rooming house there. We might come in late—get Alyn to drop you off to the apartment.” He left after giving this message and getting Sansa’s assurance that she would do as she was told.

Tyrion guessed Stark was off meeting Lyn Corbray—he wondered whether he should continue his fruitless examination of the campaign finance accounts. He’d been at it for a month with few results—why not take off the rest of the day and meet up with a few friends, such as Bronn and Shae? Bronn was an ex-soldier who’d been demobilized in the late 1990s and had then started working for a security firm that took a contract for Iraq. That was where Tyrion had met him, when he had the hare-brained idea of working as a journalist for his father’s news channel. Bronn saved his life on more than one occasion, returned to the US as his security guard and then decided to work as a private detective in DC. As for Shae... he met her soon after his return from Iraq. He knew next to nothing about her. Their relationship, in those days, had begun and ended with sex; he had paid for it by giving her a lavish lifestyle. She had wanted more—she wanted to know about his work, give him advice, all those things that he baulked at. Finally, she had rebelled and got herself a job to get away from him. They had eventually made up to some extent; he would like to see her, to know that she was all right.

It seemed Sansa had the same idea as he did. “There’s really nothing much to do out here,” she said, taking a look around. “I might as well get some shopping and sight-seeing done. I might ask Arys Oakheart to take messages if any calls come for Dad or me. Don’t tell me you plan to stay cooped up here—I’m sure you have people to see and things to do. Although... I wonder who Dad would meet in such a disreputable part of the city.”

Tyrion sighed—he was in a mood to be indiscreet. “Don’t tell your dad I told you this, but it has to do with campaign finance. It appears the accounts are in a muddle. We’re getting a lot of money, much of it in cash; contributors (some of them) claim that the amount they’re said to have contributed is much less than what they actually gave. There are lots of accounts—and money seems to flow in and out of each really fast. Jon Arryn got suspicious and asked Robert to investigate, before he died. And Robert put your father in charge of it and asked me to help. Why, I don’t know—I’m not a forensic accountant.”

She was frowning as he spoke. “Campaign finance? You mean... Petyr Baelish? Creepy Uncle Petyr?”

“Yes—but why is he creepy?”

“Remember the Army-Navy game I told you about when we first met? Well, guess who insisted on sitting beside me and breathing down my neck all day?”

“Not Baelish?”

“The same. He’s my aunt’s age, for God’s sake. And I must have been what—thirteen? Fourteen? Young enough to find Joffrey attractive in a Disney Prince sort of way but old enough to complain to my mother about Petyr when I got home.”

“So what did your mother say?”

“She was sympathetic. She told me that Grandpa had practically brought Petyr up with her and Aunt Lysa and Uncle Edmure back when they were kids, because his grandfather and father had fought alongside our family in the world wars and Vietnam and such. She said she never realised he wanted to marry her until Dad came courting. And then he threatened to fight a duel with Dad. Grandpa had to send him home, back to his less-than-proud papa.”

“So why did your Aunt Lysa insist he be hired to raise funds for Robert?”

“Oh—I think Aunt Lysa has always felt mother was the guilty party. She claims mother led Petyr on when they were all kids, which is utter nonsense. And I think he wrote to her, asking for a job. At least, that’s what mother says.”

They’d reached the reception as she finished speaking. She left a message for Arys Oakheart, telling him they were both going out and to message her on her mobile if there were any calls for her father. He agreed to do so. As they walked out together, he asked her, “By the way, if your father’s here, helping Robert, who’s running the shop back home?” She stared at him, as if she did not understand what he was saying and then she smiled. “He has a lieutenant governor, you know—Maege Mormont. Of course, mother and Robb pitch in, along with the Mormont girls.”She often spoke of her eldest brother, Robb, who at twenty-five had just started working on his father’s staff back home.

They set off on their separate paths; he to seek out Bronn and Shae and catch up with them; she to do her shopping and sight-seeing.

The next day, when he woke up in Bronn’s apartment, his head feeling heavy and his mouth foul, he knew he’d overdone the drinking. He hadn’t done this in a long time; he’d met Bronn just as he was finishing up for the day, the two of them had gone to a bar or two (or more) before they staggered up to his apartment, to pass out—Bronn on the bed, Tyrion on the sofa. Bronn told him that Shae had managed to get a break in Broadway—she had a pleasant singing voice and was now in the chorus. She’d met a nice young man, a war vet; they planned to marry sometime soon. Tyrion had thought he would feel jealous learning of this; he was surprised to feel a certain relief, even a certain joy.

He could not recall what had woken him, until he heard someone banging on the door and yelling, “Open up in the name of the law!” It was the city police; had he or Bronn done something illegal last night? He got up and opened the door, only to get the biggest shock of his life. The cops told him that Ned Stark, Jory Cassel, Heward, Wyl, Alyn and Tom had been killed—the first four somewhere in the eastern part of the city, the other two in Stark’s Washington apartment. Sansa Stark was missing. Had he any information that he wished to share with them?

He told the cops why he had been summoned to Washington by Robert and what Ned Stark might have been doing in such a dangerous part of the city. He could not imagine what could have become of Sansa—he told them about her plans to go shopping and sight-seeing.

“She did that,” Detective Davos Seaworth told him. “She was seen visiting the Smithsonian—a guard recognized her there. She was seen at a department store soon afterwards, picking up the makings of a dinner for a rather large group of people. She went up to the apartment with her shopping; Alyn, her chauffer-cum-bodyguard, was killed, as was Tom the butler. She seems to have vanished—she packed a case in a hurry; there are clothes strewn all over her room. We’ve sent for her mother to check what’s missing so that we can prepare a description for the alert.”

Tyrion described what she’d been wearing when he saw her last—Seaworth took that down and went off to meet Catelyn Tully Stark, who was flying in to National Airport. Tyrion followed him, first to the airport and then to the apartment—he wanted to offer his condolences to Mrs Stark and do everything possible to find the girl. He wondered who could have taken her. Were these the same people who had killed her father? It seemed from the manner in which Seaworth had described it, that both operations, the killings of Stark and his security detail, as well as the kidnapping of his daughter, were handled simultaneously.

However, his meeting with Mrs Stark did not go as planned. He offered his condolences, which were received coldly but politely. He offered to help in locating Sansa, which was rebuffed just as politely as his condolences were acknowledged. She went through Sansa’s wardrobe and gave Seaworth a list of items that were missing. “I helped her pack when she was to come here,” she said, her voice tight with emotion.

When the police left and he made a motion to leave, she stopped him with a gesture. She looked him up and down and then said, almost conversationally, “Lysa wrote to me, you know, after Jon Arryn died. It was not... it was written in a secret language that we had developed as girls. She said... she said he was killed... by the Lannisters. Do you know anything about it?”

He was flabbergasted. “Mrs Stark, do I look like a murderer to you? I wasn’t even in the city at that time, for God’s sake!”

“Robert divorced your sister soon after Jon’s death. Is it likely...?”

“Do you think Cersei or Jaime would have anything to do with his death? I don’t think so. I don’t know if they suspected that their secret was known—they never confided in me, you understand. “ he spoke bitterly.

“They could have paid someone...”

“He died of a fever; is that not so?”

“He died of pneumonia. At least, that is what the death certificate said. Ned said... he said Robert was surprised at Jon’s death. He was always a very hale and hearty man.” She choked up as she spoke her husband’s name. Tyrion looked at her calmly.

“There’s no way,” he said firmly, “that Cersei or Jaime could have infected Jon with pneumonia. It would need someone with medical knowledge; someone who has access to live viruses...”

“Oh, please,” she said, sounding annoyed. “They had access to money. Are you telling me they could not have paid someone to do the deed?”

“I don’t think so. I spoke to my brother after the funeral. He said neither he nor Cersei were expecting Jon to die—he was an old man, but he was in good shape. “

She turned away, seemingly unwilling to believe him. Since she had upset him tremendously, he decided he would get his own back.

“Mrs Stark, I think you should know what your husband and I were working on before he was killed...” And he told her all about the campaign finance accounts and Jon’s suspicions of Petyr Baelish. She listened quietly, and then she said, “I grew up with Petyr, you know—my sister and brother and I. He is like family. I know he’s clever and hard-working, but I cannot believe he would be dishonest. Jon and Robert made his life when they gave him this job; he would be a fool to stab them in the back like this. I know there are many people who dislike him—he can be pushy and familiar—but he does get the job done. At least, that’s what Jon used to tell Ned.”

“What if he wanted revenge... against you, against your family, against Robert, Ned and Jon?”

“Why would he want that?”

“Because you spurned him when you married Ned Stark. Oh yes, Mrs Stark—he didn’t mind regaling all of Washington with hints and insinuations and stories about how close he was to both you and your sister. And then, when your daughter came here some years ago, she said he was all over her like a rash. She said she complained to you about it.”

She stiffened when he spoke of Sansa. “When did she tell you this?”

“She spoke of this just before... this was the last time we spoke together.”

She turned to him then. “Yes, she complained to me—she was offended by his behaviour. Frankly, I was just glad she was home—I hadn’t written to Petyr after I married Ned, and I was resolved not to write to him. But I did write to Lysa to reprimand him gently.”

“And what did your sister have to say to that?”

“I might ask why that’s any of your business, Mr Lannister.”

He snapped, “I might tell you, Mrs Stark, that it is my business because I intend to prove that no one from my family could have killed Jon Arryn. So there!”

She laughed bitterly. “I should not have been surprised at Lysa’s response. She hadn’t come to the game, even though my husband and the girls were staying with her and Jon. Robin was sick—she was at the hospital with him. She promptly wrote back, telling me that she was certain Sansa was lying; Renly Baratheon was sitting close by and he would have intervened, if anything had been amiss. She did not feel it necessary to bring the matter to Petyr’s attention. Those were her very words.”

“Did you ask Sansa about this—Renly sitting with her and Petyr?”

“She said he was there, but then he left suddenly in the middle of the game, soon after Loras Tyrell was sent off the field with an injury. It was after he left that Petyr...”

“Mrs Stark, I hate to say this to you about your sister, but she is biased against you and yours. Even Sansa knows this. So how can you believe her when she says the Lannisters were responsible for killing her husband?”

He walked away from her then, leaving her silenced.

He had to face yet another horror when he went home, switched on the television and sat down with a drink. He heard it on the news—that Robert Baratheon, the senior Senator from Florida and presidential hopeful, had died during an alligator hunt in Louisiana. It appeared that he had been quite drunk; he’d shot the ‘gator that had bitten off half his leg. He bled to death before they could get him to hospital.

“At least that’s one death they won’t blame on me,” he thought bitterly, as he went to bed.

The next day, he was at Detective Seaworth’s office, to find out if he had any news of Sansa Stark. Detective Seaworth said there was no news; the girl had apparently disappeared. She had not been spotted boarding a plane at any of the three airports that served the city; neither had she been spotted in a train or bus or car. They’d described her outfit, flashed her photographs on the news channels, all to no avail. However, Renly Baratheon’s housekeeper, Brella, who had been attending to the marketing that day, because Renly and his staff were expected to visit the city that evening, had returned to the apartment block at the same time as Sansa—the two of them had travelled up together.

“She asked about a van she saw parked outside the building. It had New York license plates. The security guard said it had come to collect the Arryns’ household furnishings—they had left the city with just their clothes and personal belongings. The Starks were using the Arryns’ apartment—Mr Stark had Mrs Arryn’s stuff packed up and put in the basement. She smiled and nodded when she heard this.”

Tyrion’s ears perked up at this piece of evidence. A removal van! How difficult would it be to kill the security guards and grab the girl, along with the furniture and furnishings, if there were any?

“Have you,” he asked Detective Seaworth with mounting excitement, “shared this information with anyone else?”

The detective looked him in the eye. “Only with my chief and Mrs Stark.”

That was when Tyrion told Seaworth his suspicions, based on the work he and Ned Stark had been doing on Baelish’s accounts. And then Seaworth grabbed him by the hand and took him off to meet Stannis Baratheon.

Stannis listened to them in silence, his eyes closed and his hands steepled under his chin. He opened his eyes to look at Tyrion and then turned to the detective. “Seaworth,” he barked, “have we been able to locate that van?”

“We were able to get CCTV footage sir—and the van showed up. It arrived in New York, at Eyrie Apartments, where Mrs Arryn lives in the penthouse, sometime last night. NYPD is keeping an eye on the building.” They were already talking to the NYPD and arranging to send a squad of policemen over from DC.

Unlike Davos Seaworth, Tyrion did not choose to wait for Stannis’ permission to go to New York; he took the first flight he could get, followed by Bronn. They were lucky to get seats and arrived in the city in less than two hours. Both men were familiar with New York City—they were easily able to locate the Eyrie in Manhattan. When they arrived at the building, they learnt that Mrs Arryn had just got married a few days ago, to an old friend she’d known since she was a girl. Her niece had been there to grace the occasion, so the security guard said. Mrs Arryn had been generous to them all; she’d sent then cake and champagne. Oh yes, the niece was spending a few days with her. They were all up at the penthouse—all except for Master Robin, who’d been taken ill with convulsions. He was now in hospital with his tutor. No, Mr Baelish was not home—he’d left soon after breakfast; he said he had to meet some people for lunch.

“Let’s go,” was all Bronn said, as they went up the elevator. He’d chosen to carry a firearm with him, as checked in luggage—he was a licensed detective, after all. When they arrived at the Arryns’ apartment on the penthouse floor, it was to find the door ajar, as though someone had just left. They walked through the apartment almost to the terrace, without spotting anyone—not the servants, not Lysa Arryn Baelish, not Sansa Stark. The apartment was almost silent, but for the sound of someone yelling from the terrace.

Tyrion and Bronn used the sound of the voice to guide them to the terrace. They wanted to creep up on whoever was making that unholy racket—the location of potted plants all over the place would have been a hindrance, but they used the plants as a screen to get close to the person who was shouting. From his brief acquaintance with her, Tyrion recognized the voice as that of Lysa Arryn Baelish. She was gradually pushing Sansa to the parapet of the terrace, yelling all the while. Tyrion immediately switched on the recording function on his smart phone—he wanted to get this for the ages. Bronn crawled from the cover afforded by one potted plant to the next, to get close to Lysa and the girl.

“What do you mean, you lying bitch, that he kissed you? You must have made a pass at him... you must have tried to flirt with him... just like your mother used to. Oh yes—Petyr could never help himself when Cat flirted with him. But when push came to shove, she abandoned him for your father. And you’re just like her, you know that, you slut? And as for that self-righteous prick of a father you had, why Petyr’s worth ten of him, oh yes he is! He had to make it all on his own—he never had a silver spoon in his mouth, not my Petyr, no he didn’t. I knew—oh yes, I did—even then, even when we were kids—that he would go far. And he has, oh yes he had, despite all your father tried to do to stop him; despite all my father tried to do as well.”

“My father’s dead,” she laughed like a maniac as she spoke, “my father’s dead; he died of cancer all those years ago... he wanted to make up with me, but I would not forgive him, no I wouldn’t, not for the death of my baby, Petyr’s baby too. And then he made me—he made me marry Jon—a man his own age. God, how I hated them both! How Jon used to dote on Robert and Ned, his protégés! Well, Petyr and I sent him to his just reward—it’s not so difficult, no it isn’t, to steal a pneumonia culture from the pathology lab of a hospital. It’s not that difficult to put it into your husband’s glass of cold buttermilk, which he has at midday. It didn’t take Jon long to die, thank God—and thank God he took Jaime and Cersei Lannister down with him.”

“Did you know,” and here her voice sharpened to a screech, “that Jaime Lannister once came courting me? He came to Riverrun—he did, oh yes—but he spent the evening chatting with Uncle Brynden about the army. He barely danced with me once. He kept looking at Cat all the time. And Petyr and Edmure could not stop laughing at him. And Jon! He made Robert marry Cersei—he did, he did—for her money and her connections. But that didn’t stop Robert rutting like a pig with every pretty girl he could find from Alaska to Florida and Maine to California. And some of those girls had babies that looked exactly like Robert. And so... and so... when Cersei’s kids looked so much like her and Jaime... why, it doesn’t take an Einstein or a Holmes to join the dots, does it dear niece? I’m surprised their clever father or brother did not catch on sooner. But of course, Jon had to point a finger at my Petyr too, didn’t he, the old stinkbag? How dared he raise questions about the accounts—the campaign finance accounts—when it was Petyr who brought in more donors to Robert’s side? Why shouldn’t Petyr have taken a little something for himself—why not, I ask you? He’d done it all on his own. And why shouldn’t Petyr have kept an eye on all of you—your father, your security detail, you—from a distance? You didn’t think, did you, you stupid daughter of an idiot father, that your apartment and your father’s office was bugged? It wasn’t so difficult to get a message to your father that Lyn Corbray would come to town; that Corbray would speak to him about Petyr skimming off the cream from the contributions to Robert’s war chest. It wasn’t that difficult to get rid of them all at all, was it? Not when Lyn Corbray did the deed! And now, when I push you off the terrace, why I shall tell everyone you confessed to the killings... that you were angry with your father because he would not let you marry Joffrey... that you arranged to have him and his men killed, and escaped in the furniture removal van that I had sent to bring my stuff from Washington to New York. “

Tyrion did not realise it, but he and Bronn had been followed by Detective Seaworth and his team. So when Bronn chose to make a move on Lysa Baelish, he was followed by DC’s finest, led by Seaworth. Sansa would have fallen to her death off the terrace, if Seaworth had not been there to pull her away. They were able to put the handcuffs on Lysa and take her; Seaworth, like Tyrion, had recorded what she had been saying to the girl. Sansa, too, had the wits to switch the voice recorder on her smart phone. It would have been enough to send Lysa to jail. As for Petyr—he was caught on his return to the Eyrie, after schmoozing with half-a-dozen donors at lunch. It seemed that he had convinced them that Renly Baratheon, Governor of Florida, would run for president in place of his brother Robert. Although Renly might not carry the far right with him, because of his relationship with his political advisor, Loras Tyrell, he would be a popular choice with most of the voters. Of course he sought to deny everything—until Sansa switched on the recording she had made of Lysa’s rant. That’s when he turned on Lysa with abuse and violence—he would certainly have killed her, if Bronn and Seaworth hadn’t tackled him.

He was amazed at Sansa—she could have swooned or been in tears, but she kept her cool somehow. She was able to call her mother and tell her just what had happened—every grisly detail. Her mother had just returned north and was arranging the funerals of her father and his security detail when she called. He heard his name—his first name—mentioned frequently.

What impressed him even more was her decision to stay with Robin, Lysa’s sickly young son. He suffered from epilepsy and had convulsions that morning. Sansa insisted that she would sit with him in the hospital. “He’ll need a familiar face around when he wakes up,” she said firmly. Tyrion insisted on remaining with her. Bronn took the evening flight back to Washington alone.

Seaworth and his men, after remanding Lysa and Petyr to police custody, were able to nab Lyn Corbray, a notorious crook and gunman, with some assistance from the NYPD. They were able to establish that the bullets from his gun were used to kill Ned Stark and his men. They were also able to establish that Corbray had been in Washington at that time and had fired the bullets.

Although Petyr did his best to obfuscate the facts of the case, he was sent to jail for life for planning the murders of so many men. Lysa, it soon transpired, had been driven out of her mind—she had to be institutionalized. Lyn Corbray was killed in prison by a relative of someone he’d shot in the line of business.

Catelyn and Robb, it soon became evident, expected Sansa to hand over Robin to either his uncle or grand-uncle, neither of whom were married or intended to marry. While Edmure, despite his interest in Missouri politics, lived the life of a carefree bachelor, Uncle Brynden was an army man to the core. Neither of them would know how to care for a sickly little boy. Sansa refused to send him off to Missouri. She and Tyrion, she told him firmly, would have to join forces to look after the little boy.

He agreed to do so for his own reasons. He’d had a letter from Jaime. It appeared that Joffrey was not the only one whose psyche had been adversely affected by the divorce. While Joffrey had been sent to an institution, Cersei had taken to the bottle with disastrous results. She’d driven off a mountain road in Switzerland and was not expected to live. Jaime had no clue how he was expected to care for Myrcella and Tommen, who had loudly expressed their contempt and loathing for him and their utter dislike of life in Europe. He was sending them home to Tyrion—he had every plan of re-enlisting if possible, because he too could not stomach Europe without Cersei.

When Tyrion told Sansa what had happened, she told him they could manage three children as easily as one. “Tommen and Myrcella are well-behaved and kind; they will be good to Robin. Tommen is not half as rough as Arya or Rickon; Bran would be kind to Robin but he likes to be active all the time. Myrcella will help us keep Robin amused and in good heart.” When he wondered how they would explain things to their families, she was just as direct. “Tell them the truth,” she said.

His relatives were surprised at his decision—they had not expected him to stand by his siblings’ children. Catelyn and Robb, as well as the rest of the Stark family, were flabbergasted; she could have come home to Winterfell with Robin, could she not? Why did she have to get involved with that horrid Lannister man and those awful children? She could marry any man she wanted; she did not have to settle for Tyrion Lannister. Sansa refused to answer their questions, although when Tyrion asked her why she had got involved with him, she told him it was because he had got involved with her. “You,” she reminded him with the poke of a finger in his chest, “came all the way from DC to NYC to rescue me from my crazy aunt like a knight from King Arthur’s Round Table. You tried to help my father nail Petyr. I can’t walk away from that—I could never look Dad in the eye again when we meet in heaven. That’s what I told mother and Robb—I don’t know if they understand.”


	5. Pranking Tywin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a true story posted on Tumblr. The characters belong to GRRM.

It was when they set sail from Lannisport for Braavos that Tyrion finally acknowledged to himself that his father was beginning to get on his nerves. Tyrion was to spend a year or two in Essos, in the Free Cities, lecturing on Westerosi language and literature at several noted universities. He’d already completed a doctorate on that subject from Oldtown, and this stint in Essos would add much heft to his CV. The only fly in the ointment, so to speak, was his father.

Tywin Lannister had spent a lifetime in business and politics, during which he had become extremely allergic to impulsive or illogical behavior. Perhaps, as Joanna, Tywin’s wife, and Tyrion’s mother remarked, it had something to do with his business and political associate, Aerys Targaryen, a charming man given to sudden bouts of rage and startling changes in behavior. To hear his parents tell it, Tywin had endured Aerys’ crazy impulses for at least twenty long years before he resigned to return home to Casterly Rock, Joanna and their family. But by the time he returned, the twins, who were older to Tyrion by eight years, were ready to leave home and take their own decisions. Jaime, instead of following his father into business and politics, chose to join the army, to the complete consternation of his father. Cersei, instead of making the society marriage her family’s social position demanded of her, chose to set up her own design label and go into business for herself. After all, her parents had insisted she take a domestic science course, to better prepare her to run a home after marriage. There she’d learned (reluctantly) to sew and knit and crochet, among other things. And when she noticed how other girls copied almost all her outfits to the best of their ability, she lost no time in preparing a business plan and getting a bank loan to start her business. It infuriated Tywin that the person who helped her in this endeavor was none other than Joanna’s college classmate, Loreza, Princess of Dorne, a tireless advocate of encouraging women to enter the world of business. 

By the time the twins left home for good, Tyrion was twelve years old, and Tywin’s need to control every aspect of his life was at its height. He did not like Tyrion bringing anyone home from school, even for a study date. Tyrion was forced to live a very regimented life, which consisted of going to school, coming back home to study, going for swims or horse rides for exercise, practising his use of the cross-bow and the short sword (exercise, yet again!), visiting other members of the Lannister clan and nothing else. There was no question of having a girlfriend or going to prom. No wonder he finished school early and with the highest marks in his year, arriving in Oldtown at the age of fifteen. 

He was lucky that Joanna kept up with the Dornish royal family; Prince Oberyn, Princess Loreza’s youngest son, was studying toxicology at Oldtown and was delighted to take Tyrion under his wing. This meant that Tyrion spent a blissful ten years in that city, not only studying but learning to enjoy life, outside the restrictions imposed by his overbearing and overly controlling father. So that, when he returned to Casterly Rock after earning his doctorate to tell his parents that he’d accepted an offer to lecture in Essos for three years straight, he was unprepared for his father’s reaction. Of course, Tywin was happy for his son; it was good to know that he had found a line of work that suited his intellect and tastes. But he insisted that he and Joanna would accompany Tyrion to Braavos, his first port of call, to see him settled in. Tyrion noticed that his mother was surprised to hear this; in the thirteen years since he had retired, Tywin had never once talked of going on a cruise with his wife of many years. (Perhaps this had to do with the unfortunate demise of yet another associate of his, Steffon Baratheon, who had perished, along with his wife and their entire crew when their ship had sunk just off Shipbreaker Bay). In any case, he was infuriated to hear his father explain to his mother that they needed to go on the cruise to ensure that Tyrion did not impulsively end up tying the knot with some pretty young thing he met on board ship. When Joanna demurred and remarked that Tyrion had not shown signs of getting attached to anyone for ten long years, Tywin did not hesitate to remind her that her dear friend Loreza’s son Doran had married a girl from Norvos when he was touring Essos. “And look how that marriage turned out—she went back home after ten years and three babies because she could not stomach the life of a royal!”

So here he was, on Maids of Summer, with both his parents on board and with his father looking gimlet-eyed at any woman with whom he spoke for two minutes straight. Tyrion had been patient and forbearing with his not-so-aged parent, but enough was enough. This controlling attitude was beginning to chafe at him. His mother, on the other hand, was enjoying herself, chatting with all the young people and becoming the life and soul of the party.

It was while he was chatting with a red-haired girl from the North, a Stark of Winterfell no less, that he finally decided to do something about it. They’d spoken several times; she was just as deeply into language and literature as he was, and they’d talked at length about his views on Florian and Jonquil (he had little liking for men who spied on women bathing!) and the entire knightly culture depicted in such songs and stories. She described how much these songs had influenced her ideas on relationships and how badly this had affected her. While they talked, he kept an eye out for his father. Luckily, Tywin and Joanna had been drawn into a game of bridge by the ship’s captain and his first officer. Tyrion relaxed and heaved a sigh of relief.

That was when she (Sansa; her name was Sansa!) remarked, “Why does your father keep watching you so closely?”  
“Because he expects me to fall in love with the first woman I meet on board ship, propose to her and marry her forthwith!” Tyrion responded acerbically. He then tried to explain his father to Sansa, thus telling her more than he had intended to about his family and himself. When he had finished, instead of feeling a hot flush of shame at having thus exposed himself to such an extent, he felt an incredible relief. And then she said, “Perhaps you should bring his greatest nightmare to life—not really, but just as a joke. He has to learn to roll with the punches, otherwise, he’ll make himself ill. And your mum, who I think is a really lovely person, will spend all her time caring for him. She’s really enjoying this trip, you know?”

That was when Tyrion had his brainwave—why not organize a fake marriage to this nice young girl? She’d been telling him how her relations had been pairing her off with one unsuitable man or another ever since she reached adolescence. Perhaps it was time they gave their relatives (on board and on land) a well-deserved shock, or in his father’s vocabulary, a sharp lesson.

The two of them huddled together and made their plans. By the time the bridge game was over, Tywin and Joanna went off to change for cocktails and dinner. That was when Tyrion went to the captain and first officer and explained what he wanted to do. Both men roared with laughter and agreed; they’d enjoyed the bridge game with the aging couple from Lannisport but would not mind pulling the old lion’s leg a little. “I do have the legal right to get passengers married on board ship,” the captain told Tyrion.

That night, just as all the passengers walked into the lounge for cocktails, Tyrion walked up to his parents, holding Sansa by the hand, saying, “Mother, father, I just met Sansa Stark on board ship and we would like to get married tomorrow!” His father gave his young bride-to-be a cold, hard look, which had made hardened politicians and businessmen from the Wall to Dorne turn into puddles of tears. She returned it with a calm and serene gaze and then smiled at his mother, her eyes twinkling.

When planning this prank, the two of them had decided to go the whole way. So that night, they both mentioned the planned wedding on their Facebook pages. “That way,” as Sansa told him, “all our friends and exes will come to know… And let them froth in the mouth.” The next day they were “married” by the captain, with all the young women Sansa knew on board acting as her bridesmaids. Tywin was looking grimmer by the minute. Which was why Tyrion decided to inform his parents that it was only a prank before the day ended—he did not want his father having a seizure on board ship, nor did he want Cersei and Jaime to blame him for having caused the seizure.

Everyone on board ship had a good laugh about the prank, but Tyrion’s friends in Westeros were not so forgiving. He got several e-mails and posts from his friends in Oldtown telling him he’d behaved badly. He even had Oberyn calling him up to scold him, which was a bit much because Oberyn standing up for the proprieties was not someone Tyrion was used to.

Although Tywin was relieved that Tyrion was not getting married to some girl he had met on board ship, he was still disappointed that his son would not marry “a Stark of Winterfell!” “As if that matters now!” Tyrion thought, somewhat amused and annoyed by his father’s snobbery. But he was glad he’d played the prank—he’d spent too long being the obedient child. It felt good to be naughty for once. And he’d made a friend! He and Sansa planned to keep in touch. She was on her way to meet her uncle and aunt, who’d gone off to Vaes Dothrak to breed horses. She would also be visiting the various Free Cities, and they hoped to meet up soon, for drinks and dinner, if they were in the same city at the same time.

A year later, they met in Myr, where he was lecturing, and she was picking up information on lace-making. They’d been writing regularly to each other and he knew all the ins and outs of how Uncle Brandon’s horse-breeding business was going. They both ended up spending a lot of time together, talking about their travels, enjoying the exotic foods and drinks of Essos and seeing the sights of Myr. She even attended several of his lectures and they spent several enjoyable evenings arguing about his conclusions. It was as the year ended and the requests to return home to Winterfell became more pressing that they both realized they could not bear to be parted. So, this time, they married for real, again informing their friends, none of whom was ready to take them at their word. The other people who were skeptical were Tywin and Joanna. As his father told Tyrion— “I don’t think I can believe it to be true even if I were to see it.”

But he did finally accept the truth of it, as he held his grandchildren in his arms two years later.


End file.
